Hints of Spring

Here we are, closing out the third week in April, season of almosts. Our rivers almost warmed to that magic place: 50 degrees! But then a few nights well below freezing took care of that. There were almost some flies on the wing; but they were just the early stoneflies that hatch and buzz the surface without the notice of the trout.

Honestly, there was no true hope of an early spring after the winter we just came through…I think we’re through it… 26 degrees yesterday morning, 48 outside for this one. The miles and experience of several decades wandering Catskill rivers has taught me that the last week of April ushers in the dry fly season. Anything earlier than that, and it has happened, qualifies as an early spring.

What we have in an embattled Catskill April like this one is a procession of… clues? Hints of spring, yes, that’s what they are! A sunny day here and there, but after a deeply cold wintry night, where that morning sunshine has to begin by melting the heavy frost lying upon the land. Being far too enveloped in the angling life for my own good, I am out there regardless of the weather, ignoring the common sense I was born with to wander in search of that first tiny gray pair of wings, that first subtle ring upon the surface that isn’t the result of an ice crystal falling from the sky.

I have seen those hints of spring, I mean, I waded a river in mid-March and caught a pair of very nice Catskill brown trout, though that was swinging a sunken fly. A dirty business that, not at all something to be proud of. Sometimes though, the soul of an angler craves solace. I have seen rises too. One here on one day, another there a few days later, but not those wings! A trout with a wild hair? Who knows. Maybe a last remaining bug from back in November that was flash frozen in the river ice and just thawed out to take it’s last kick of life in front of a trout who was just as interested in springtime as I was.

Sitting on a riverbank, the Leonard 50 DF laid on the brown grass beside me, I feel the alternating warmth of the sun and the chill bite of the wind. Every moment of the afternoon that passes tells me that, once again, it is not going to happen today. I accept that, for I believe it will happen one day soon. I live for that belief, for precious hours along bright water whether sitting in the grass or casting to some rising flame of wildness. Each day I cherish, and I search and wait, all the while finding just what I am looking for.

There are just a few flies bobbing now and then on the wind tossed surface, one here, one there. The only motion of the water is driven by the wind. I search, and sometimes I find a tangible hint of spring, hear the soft plop over the rushing of the still bare branches. The 50 reaches out just then, as my search becomes reality for just one perfect moment; and then the cane is bending, surging with life and the old reel sings to drown out the rushing of the wind!